The Hunter's Moon (The Secret Warrior Series) (6 page)

“I should first explain how it begins.”

“Yes.” Her voice was hushed.

Jackson waved his tanned hand at the animals in the carvings and weavings. “Once the Shenandoah Valley teemed with game. The Shawnee dwelt in the northern end, near what is now Winchester, the largest town in the valley.”

“The Shawnee really got run out,” she said quietly.

“Not only us. Other tribes hunted or passed through the valley on their journey elsewhere. We were blessed with abundance. Do you know what Shenandoah means?”

“No.”

“Daughter of the Stars.”

“Beautiful,” she breathed out.

“Yes. Okema was here in those days with our people. Then settlers came, like birds covering the sky. They did not want the Shawnee, or any other tribe, in the Shenandoah. Wars broke out. Blood was spilt and hearts broken on both sides. He saw all of this. In his pain, he cried out to Manito, the Great Sprit, for help.”

“I’m guessing that didn’t work out.”

Jackson lifted one broad shoulder and let it drop. “Not in the manner he expected. One night a most unusual event occurred. Star People,
hala’a’kwa lin’nuwech’kie
, came down.”

She bent toward him, searching his face for any indication he was kidding. “Seriously? Like space aliens?”

He didn’t crack the barest hint of a smile. “Yes.”

Either Jackson was an outstanding liar or telling the truth. The conviction in his eyes told her he was in earnest. That left crazy as a possibility, but nothing about him struck her as crazy.

Images of extraterrestrials swirled through her already shocked mind. “Are you talking about the good kind? In movies and TV shows, they can go either way.”

“Are any people all good?” he asked, in turn.

“Space aliens are usually one or the other.”

“The Star People were wise and caring. Seeing Okema Manetoh was a great warrior chief, they gave him special gifts, and appointed him guardian of the forest in these mountains. Along with the powers, they gave him the lifetime of seven men and the spirit of the wolf.”

She stared from Jackson to all the wolves in the room and back to his unswerving gaze. “By spirit of the wolf, what do you mean?”

“He is part man, part wolf.”

His assertion careened through her. “Wait—there must be some mistake.”

“You can tell the Star People, the next time they visit.”

“Are they coming again?”

“Someday.” He seemed in no doubt of this occurrence. “They told Okema he must battle the beast within to grow stronger. Which one prevails, depends on which one he allows.”

“He was a man when I saw him.”

Jackson regarded her intently. “Not the first time.”

Her heart pounded so hard, she thought he must hear. “No. That couldn’t be him.”

Still, Jackson didn’t waver.

“You mean Okema was the white wolf with eyes like star shine?”

“He was.” Jackson’s eyes glowed undeniably gold, as if they’d changed colors.

Clapping a hand to her mouth, she smothered a gasp. Then slowly released it. “You were the brown and gray wolf who first fought the Panteras for Jimmy and me.”

“Yes. My father is the black one. Each Wapicoli male is born with the wolf spirit.”

She waved her spoon at the ceiling. “This can’t be. It makes no sense.”

“Sense, as you define it, Morgan, doesn’t enter in.”

“The rabbit hole thing,” she murmured.

“Exactly. I first turned at sixteen. We always turn on the night of the full moon, and at times in between. It depends on our will and whether we can fight best in wolf or warrior form.”

“Holy moly, Jackson.” She didn’t know whether to get in his face or bolt from the room.

Argument tumbled from her. “Why are you entrusting me with these deep, dark secrets? What if I told someone? People could come after you with guns and other weapons. Even with your supposed powers and Okema’s, you might fall and—”

He pressed his fingers to her protesting lips. “Think, Morgan. Why would I tell you this when the Wapicoli tell no one outside our clan, or we face banishment?”

Then it dawned on her. She could scarcely breathe.

His eyes never leaving hers, he lowered his hand.

She forced the question from her tight throat. “What is my curse?”

“On your seventeenth birthday you will become like us.”

“A werewolf?” Hysteria threatened to overwhelm her, but she battled toward the awful truth. A note of hysteria sharpened her query. “Because that’s what you are, isn’t it? Say it, say the word.”

“Werewolf.” He laid a warm hand over her balled up fist. “But you have no warning, no preparation, for what will happen to you, as I did. And no control. This you must learn. And the Morcant seventeenth birthday always falls on the full moon. You are drawn to it like the tide.”

She clung to his hand, a lifeline in the flood waters rising all around her. “I already have the Panteras after me, and now—an insane curse.”

Her head reeled from trying to understand what he’d disclosed. It was too much to be believed, and yet, his sincerity was unmistakable.

Should she trust him?

A vital ally could make all the difference to her fate. And his eyes held such compelling appeal.

She took a deep breath. “Will you help me?”

“I’ll teach you all I know.” Hesitancy edged his reply.

Alarm shot through her. “What?”

“The prophecy says the seventh generation Morcant girl to turn will be the most powerful. To balance you, the seventh generation Wapicoli male will also have great power. That’s me. Morgan, we are meant to be enemies.”

“By whom? The Star People?”

He shook his head. “The one who cursed your family. Okema. The Wapicoli and Morcant clans have much hostility between them. The Morcants, because of the curse. The Wapicoli, because it was meant to destroy Daniel Morgan, and failing that, his daughter. But she survived. This angered Okema. The
Manetoh
in his name means poison. His bite is deadly.”

The sensation of ants scattering down her neck accompanied stark realization. “He didn’t just curse Daniel Morgan, he bit him.”

“Yes. And no one except the Morcants have ever survived the bite from Okema Manetoh.”

She closed her eyes against the intensity in Jackson’s. “I still might not.”

“You will. You must. Okema summoned you, and is allowing you to remain with the Wapicoli for a purpose.”

“He even advised me to seek aid from you and the others,” she conceded. “Why? If he hates us—me—so much?”

“Okema sees the need for you. Our numbers dwindle. He is in his final lifetime and begins to fade. Without him, we are in peril. The Wapicoli face many dangers guarding this land against creatures you can only imagine.”

She opened her eyes and looked into Jackson’s golden gaze. He swept a hand at the room, encompassing far more in that grand sweep than the lodge alone. “Welcome to Hidden Valley.”

Chapter Six

The Charmed Room

Tick tock
. Normally not a morning person, Morgan had risen in the silvery predawn light with a sense of time running out.

Even before they’d entered witness protection, Aunt M. had moved her and Jimmy around as if she were trying to get them all away from something. Apparently, she was. Jackson insisted there was no escaping the curse, but Morgan couldn’t blame Aunt M. for trying.

Wrapped in a thick towel after her shower, Morgan gazed out her bedroom window at the misty mountains. Red and yellow leaves were ghostly in the whiteness. The scenery fit with the mystery enveloping her. If the trees could speak, what tales they would tell of the unseen world surrounding her in these hazy ridges, and farther back in the mists of time.

She sniffed the spicy woodsy scent, reminiscent of a newly cut Christmas tree, pervading the room. The fragrance mixed with smoke from the fireplace. Before Jackson had departed last evening, he’d said the scent came from the red cedar used to craft the honey-streaked, mahogany colored furniture. He also said the Shawnee regarded cedar wood and branches as protective and spiritually cleansing. Morgan appreciated the soothing scent, given the recent disturbing revelations. Maybe that’s why Miriam put her in this room in the first place.

She ran her gaze over the handcrafted furnishings. Bent branches formed the wagon wheel spokes in the head and backboard of the snug log bed. Flannel sheets and the heavy red blanket with black silhouettes of deer, bear, and wolves woven into the design had kept her warm in the cold night. She’d added kindling to the fire upon rising and swept the hearth with the short-handled broom that someone, perhaps Miriam, had made.

Personal items went into the drawers in the bottom of the wardrobe standing against one log wall. Morgan always carried extra supplies—a tip from Aunt M. She packed toiletries, clean underclothes, jammies, and a t-shirt in the event she had to take off abruptly, as had happened. The bag was a combination school/carry all. Since witness protection, she’d enrolled in a number of online classes and textbooks were few. She had her slim laptop along if she could recharge the battery up here, although she doubted resuming her education would command top priority. Not with the enormity of what she faced, and she hadn’t begun to grasp it all.

How could she?

Lost in thought, she hung the towel on a hook and slipped into her bra and panties. Should she don her t-shirt and jeans, or see what waited in the wardrobe?

Curiosity got the better of her. She opened the doors of the freestanding closet, exuding cedar. They opened to reveal the clothes thoughtful Miriam had left in readiness.

Wow
. She gaped at what lay before her.

Instead of a skirt, Miriam had provided dark leather pants. Morgan stepped into them and buttoned the front at her waist. They hugged her figure as though designed for her. The hand-stitched white cotton shirt she slid on had a feminine touch in the scoop neck and ruffle at the end of the long sleeves. She wore it over the white camisole, beneath the lace-up leather vest. The to-die-for, lined leather jacket matched her pants.

For added warmth, Miriam had left her a brown woolen cap, gloves, and scarf she must’ve knitted. The rugged outdoor boots in the bottom of the wardrobe were Morgan’s size. Socks of the finest wool had been tucked inside them, plus a second pair, and a spare shirt, were set aside for later.

Everything was perfect. Miriam must have anticipated Morgan’s arrival and carefully prepared for it weeks in advance. But how could she know?

Was she psychic, or the witch Morgan suspected—or both? If she practiced magic, it must be the good sort. Miriam didn’t have a bad bone in her body; her thoughtfulness was truly touching.

No one, not even Aunt Maggie, had ever gone to such lengths for Morgan. Miriam was like the grandmother she’d never known. Was Jackson aware of Miriam’s efforts on her behalf?

If so, he hadn’t said a word about it last evening.

Her eyes misted, and she shifted her gaze to the window. Was she destined to remain in these ridges? Granted, the view was spectacular, but she’d never expected to call this strange land home. Having Miriam and Jackson would certainly help her adjust.

Brush in hand, she ran it through her clean hair while pondering all she’d seen and heard. She felt the same as usual, apart from the dark fear of what she might—would—become, according to Jackson. She couldn’t remember each detail. Questions swirled in her mind. She must speak again with him and Miriam.

What would the other family members say about Morgan’s presence in the lodge? Would they resent her? After all, she was a Morcant. Even though she hadn’t yet grasped what that meant, the Wapicoli had accumulated over two centuries worth of animosity toward her clan.

Perhaps, if Okema found her potentially useful, they would also? And surely, they’d tolerate Jimmy? He was only a boy. If nothing else, he was brilliant and highly trainable. The kid could probably teach them a thing or two.

Pulling her long hair back in a ponytail, she secured it with a black scrunchy. She laid the brush on the nightstand made from a knotted stump that had been buffed and polished. The Wapicoli’s use of natural things combined pure simplicity and skilled craftsmanship, and appealed to the artist in her. She admired them, their furnishings, and the lodge.

She also feared everything about this strange new life.

Before she descended the stairs to brave the family breakfast at 7:00, as Jackson had instructed, she checked herself in the mirror. The full-length glass mounted on the wall wasn’t framed with cedar, but a dark brown wood. He hadn’t named the kind of tree used, but she sensed its power. A sort of energy emanated from it. That had nothing to do with her, though. The fresh-faced girl she’d expected to see gazed back at her, only with more flair than usual.

Miriam’s healing salve had reduced the lump on Morgan’s forehead, and she’d covered the bruise with concealer. Momentary pride swelled in her fluttering chest. She’d make one hot biker chick in this outfit. Worn jeans and the accompanying hoodie were her usual style, typical for the
art geek
she was generally considered to be.

Awesome
. She’d finally achieved cool.